Читать книгу The Second Promise - Joan Kilby - Страница 9

MAEVE CLOSED her clipboard and wandered back to the patio. Her plan wasn’t as complete as she would have liked. But then, she didn’t feel she knew everything she needed to about Will. Sometimes she just had to start with the barest of an idea, and elaborate as she got to know her characters, the way a writer might.

She spread the sheets of graph paper with her roughed-in design on the table and waited for Will to return from seeing his friend—girlfriend?—out. He came through the sliding doors looking as though he’d been hit hard over the head and was still seeing stars. “Everything all right?” she asked.

“Huh?” He gave his head a little shake. “Yes. Fine. Are you finished taking measurements?”

Maeve indicated the graph paper. “See what you think.”

Will turned the paper sideways to read her tiny writing. “It’s all Greek to me.”

“Latin, actually,” Maeve said. “Sorry if it’s confusing, but using the species names of plants is second nature.”

“Where did you study?”

“Melbourne University. I have a PhD in botany.”

Will’s eyebrows disappeared upward into a lock of sun-streaked chestnut hair. “I would have thought you’d be teaching or doing research, with a degree like that.”

Maeve shrugged. “I experiment in situ in my own modest way, but I prefer growing plants to studying them, especially when I have the go-ahead to do my own thing. Which is really your thing, of course. You can get back to me on the estimate, if you like. My phone number’s on the letterhead, or you can e-mail me.”

“When would you be able to start?” he asked.

She thought for a moment. “I’m booked solid for the next two weeks, but I’ll try to rearrange some of my less-urgent jobs. I could get back here on Monday to take out that tree by the bungalow.”

“I appreciate your rearranging work for me.”

She knew he wouldn’t understand if she told him his garden was already growing inside her mind. “You…you’ve been so good to my father.”

“Nothing he didn’t earn.” For some reason Will’s mouth flattened and a frown line appeared between his eyes. He went into the house and returned a moment later carrying a checkbook. “You’ll be needing money for materials, I presume?”

Maeve handed him the second piece of paper from her clipboard. “Half of that will be enough to get me going. Labor costs are charged at an hourly rate.”

Will glanced over the itemized list and scribbled off a check. “Might as well pay for all the materials now to avoid delays in the future.”

“If you say so.” Clients weren’t usually so quick to offer money—especially those supposedly in financial straits. Mentally, she gave herself a shake; sometimes she analyzed things too much. She wrote him out a receipt, then folded his check and tucked it into her breast pocket. “I take it this means I’ve got the job.”

“Looks that way.” He stacked the papers and set them aside. “Are you busy Saturday night?”

“No, but—”

“There’s a jazz concert at the Briar’s winery this weekend,” he said over her objection. “We could take a picnic supper, sit under those big old gums and watch the cockatoos flap home to roost while the sun sets over the hills…”

Maeve smiled and held up a hand to stop his flow of words. “That sounds wonderful, but I can’t.”

“Can’t, or won’t?” he asked bluntly.

She hesitated, glanced away, then faced him squarely. “Won’t.”

“May I ask why?”

“I…don’t get involved with clients.” She couldn’t meet his eyes.

He shook his head. “I don’t buy it.”

“Okay. How about, I don’t think seeing you is a good idea given that you’re my father’s employer.”

“Bullshit,” he said politely.

“Okay…” Time to get serious, even though—no, especially because—part of her badly wanted to see him again. Her chin rose. “I don’t find you attractive.”

Will didn’t even flinch. He studied her face as though trying to decide why she was lying to him. Finally, he said quietly, “Tell me the real reason.”

She drew in a deep breath, shaken that his calm rational eyes saw through her so easily. When she spoke, the truth made her voice tremble. “I’m just not ready for a relationship right now. Sometimes I don’t know if I ever will be again.”

His frown softened into concern. “You must have been hurt badly.”

She glanced away. “You could say that.”

“Your ex-husband?”

“He…was part of it. Look, I really don’t want to talk about it. It’s personal and deeply painful, and not something I share with many people. Trust me, it wouldn’t work between us.”

“Maybe if I ask you again in a week or two—”

“No! I mean, I’m sorry, but there’s absolutely no hope that I’ll change my mind. You’d just be wasting your time.”

She gazed at him, troubled to see that his expression was one of quiet determination.

“I won’t pressure you,” he said. “But when you change your mind, I’ll be waiting.”

“Don’t,” she said, putting her hat on. “Don’t wait for me.”

WILL ROSE AT FIVE the next morning, groggy with the heat. He’d spent a sleepless night, his mind in turmoil over the upcoming meeting with Paul, his company accountant and friend since university. Electronic engineering, not economics, was Will’s field, but he didn’t have to be John Kenneth Galbraith to realize that his company was in trouble.

Today he had to make a decision on the financial consultant’s recommendation to close the Mornington factory and relocate offshore. Production costs were high; wages were higher. Cheap imports threatened his place in the market, and shareholders were pushing for an increased profit margin. After an initial, almost phenomenal, success, his tamperproof, infrared security alarm was being priced out of the world market. The only way to keep his business afloat, the money boys said, was to transfer production to Indonesia.

Such a move would throw his employees out of work. He hated that idea; it went against everything he stood for, everything he’d worked for. On the other hand, if Aussie Electronics went down, they would all lose their jobs anyway.

He ate a fried-egg sandwich while he stood at the edge of the patio in nothing but his shorts. When the hell would this weather break? Not a cloud marred the pure-blue sky, although the towers of Melbourne in the distance were hazy with smog. Usually a cool change blew through after a four- or five-day cycle of rising heat, but this was the seventh day in a row of temperatures over one hundred degrees.

The image of Maeve’s trusting smile appeared before him. You’ve been so good to my father.

Maeve herself, with her graceful movements and her perceptive dark eyes, had been on his mind in spite of his efforts to forget her. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she could see into his heart, and was at least intrigued with what she saw. So why this refusal to go out with him?

Then, there was Ida. Her astonishing request completed this triumvirate of mind-boggling, gut-wrenching problems. He wanted to help her out. He couldn’t see any logical reason he shouldn’t help her out. But something in him balked at being nothing more than a sperm donor.

He arrived at his factory an hour later. Aussie Electronics occupied a long, low-slung building in an industrial park on the outskirts of Mornington, twenty miles north on the peninsula. Will parked the Merc in front of the building, noting that Paul’s car was already in one of the visitors’ slots.

“’Morning, Renée,” Will said as he walked through reception. Renée was a petite blonde in her forties who’d trained as a secretary, then stayed home with her children while they were young. Will had rescued her from a dead-end job and he’d been more than repaid by her organizational skills and efficiency.

Renée’s hands stilled on the keyboard of her computer. “Paul’s waiting for you in the meeting room.”

Will felt her troubled gaze follow him as he walked through the door that led to the inner offices, and he clenched his fists. Surely, with good references and a record of five years’ steady employment she wouldn’t have to go back to flipping burgers.

Paul was seated at the long oval table, papers spread around him. His short dark hair glistened with gel and he wore city garb—a black suit and a conservative gray tie. He was more than an accountant to Will’s company; Will relied on him for many of the business management tasks he himself had little time for.

“Paul, you old bastard,” Will said, grasping his hand in a firm shake before pulling out a chair across from the accountant. “Don’t you know it’s summer?”

Paul gave him a mildly reproving once-over. “I hope you’re not going to wear that bloody Hawaiian shirt when we meet with the Indonesian delegation in Jakarta next month.”

Will glanced down at his colorful attire, and grinned. “Don’t you know the casual look has reached this country’s boardrooms?”

Paul gave a bark of laughter. “And you’re such a slave to fashion.”

Will’s smile flickered. “Time to get serious, Paul. Kmart and Target both canceled their orders for my security alarm. They’ve decided to stock the Japanese model. It’s manufactured in Singapore and sells for ten percent less.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Exactly.” Will dropped his briefcase on the table and sat heavily. The Japanese alarm, new on the market, was almost identical to his own invention, with just enough superficial differences to get around the patent laws. “I’ve not only lost my number-one position in sales, but I’m being pushed right out of the market.”

“You’ve got other products,” Paul said. “Timers, switches, medical instrumentation…”

“Sure, and they’re doing okay, but they’re not big earners. Not big enough to make up for losing the tamperproof alarm, at any rate. And since I floated those shares on the open market I’ve got third parties demanding increasing profit.” He indicated a sheaf of papers in front of Paul. “So you’ve looked at these documents sent over by the Indonesian Department of Trade?”

Paul nodded. “They’re offering all sorts of tax incentives. Economically, it’s very viable.”

“True,” Will said. “Although Indonesia’s had a lot of internal political trouble lately. The people aren’t too keen on foreign investors.”

Paul spread his hands. “No sweat. The government officials I’ve communicated with assure me the situation is under control.”

“I saw on the news the other night that students are protesting in the capital.”

Paul shrugged. “Students are always protesting. It’s what they do. The government will love you for creating jobs.”

“Too bad I have to destroy them here,” Will said sharply.

“Listen, mate, good guys finish last. You’ve got to close the factory and make your move while you’re still solvent. Six months from now your Mornington employees won’t even remember your name.”

“They’ll be cursing it.” Will pushed back his chair and rose to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond the paddocks where horses grazed, rows of grapevines curved up the slope of the hill. Over the years Will had gotten to know each of his employees. Most of them were skilled, hardworking and loyal. He didn’t want to let them down.

Or lose control of what he’d worked so hard to build.

But he knew Paul was right. Close the factory was the only logical thing to do. Will’s chest squeezed tight, as though he were being crushed. “After all the satisfaction of growing the company, it hurts to send it down the drain.”

“Not down the drain, just overseas. It’s not the same thing at all,” Paul assured him. “If you want, I’ll make the announcement and you can distance yourself from the dirty deed.”

“No,” Will said, straightening. “I’m responsible to my employees. I’ll tell them.”

Paul passed across some stapled pages. “I’ve drawn up a list of employees and their redundancy payouts. Everything’s ready to go. I just need your signature.”

Glancing down the page, Will frowned. “These amounts are awfully low. Most of my employees have families.”

“They’re the minimum entitlements required by law.”

“Double them.”

“You can’t afford—”

“Just do it!” Will swore softly but fervently, rubbing a hand across his face. “Sorry, mate, I know you’re only trying to do what’s best for the company.”

Paul leaned forward and gripped Will’s shoulder. “Everything’ll be okay. You’ll see.”

Will nodded, and forced himself to concentrate on what had to be done. “To fulfill current contracts, production has to continue for another three months.”

“I’ll notify the appropriate people in Jakarta and put the paperwork in motion,” Paul said. “I’ve got agents there looking for suitable factory space. Do you have anyone in mind to go over and help with the start-up?”

“Art Hodgins would be my first choice.” Three months. He was giving his employees the ax and then expecting them to continue to work for him for three whole months.

“If I were you, I’d delay making the announcement until closer to the shutdown date,” Paul said, as though he’d read Will’s thoughts. “You’re only required to give two weeks’ notice. Any more than that and you’re asking for trouble.”

“People need time to find new jobs. It won’t be easy for some,” he said, thinking of Art Hodgins—and Pat and Mick and Vlad and a dozen others over the age of fifty. Although, in the case of Art, Will could delay the problem by getting him involved in the set-up overseas.

“You’re shooting yourself in the foot,” Paul said. “But maybe for you they’ll carry on. I’ve never seen a company with so few industrial relations problems.” He glanced at his watch as he tucked the rest of his papers in his briefcase. “I’ve got another appointment in Mornington—but what do you say we meet for an early lunch at the Grand Hotel?”

Just the thought of sitting in a pub, pretending to have a good time right after he’d lowered the boom on his employees, had Will shaking his head. There was only one place he wanted to be after this—alone on his surfboard between the sky and the sea. But that would have to wait until the end of the working day. “Thanks, mate, not today. Let’s get together soon, though.” He pushed himself to his feet.

And then, all too quickly, Will was facing the expectant faces of the hundred or so men and women who worked for him. There was some nervous laughter as he cleared his throat, and a few people exchanged apprehensive glances. When he began to speak, the room fell quiet. From the shocked looks on every face as his message sank in, he realized that whatever rumors had gone around, no one had expected the factory to actually close.

Shock swiftly gave way to muttered whispering. Then, McLeod, a hard-bitten man who’d been with the company only a few months but who seemed always to be complaining, demanded belligerently to know why.

Art Hodgins quelled the rising storm of protest, shouting that Will Beaumont wouldn’t be closing his doors unless he was up against the wall. When the noise died down, Art turned to Will with quiet dignity. “I’m sure we’re all sorry you’re losing what you’ve worked so hard to build.”

Will nodded briefly, fighting a rising sense of shame. Paul stepped forward to outline the steps being taken to save the company, namely, relocating to Indonesia. Rumblings of anger and betrayal echoing in his mind, Will escaped back to his office to deal with the morbid and mortifying task of burying his dead company.

MAEVE KICKED OFF her boots and pushed through the front door of her cottage. She’d just been to the wholesale nursery to order plants for Will’s garden and had gotten an excellent mid-season sale price on two dozen gardenia bushes, plus found a gorgeous specimen of a deeply scented mauve rose called Moonlight Mist. She couldn’t wait to see how they looked in Will’s garden.

“Hi, Dad,” she called. “I’m home.”

No answer. Art’s boots were in their usual place on the mat outside the front door. The mail had been collected and piled on the hall table. She walked down the long hallway, passing the shut bedroom doors, listening to the silence. “Dad?”

The house seemed unnaturally quiet. The kitchen was empty, with no signs of cooking. Or indeed, of any life at all.

Apprehension jabbed under her ribs. Quickly, she strode back down the hall to his bedroom. Wherever he was, Art was fine, she told herself. He’d walked down to the milk bar for a paper or a pouch of the tobacco he rolled his single cigarette of the day from. But if that was the case, why hadn’t she passed him on the street?

“Dad?” She knocked at his closed door. “Are you in there?”

Pressing her ear to the door she heard a grunt of assent. Sighing with relief, she opened the door. “Are you okay?”

He was lying on his bed, hands folded on his chest, staring at the ceiling. Fear clutched at her again. He hadn’t gone to bed during the day since his heart attack. When he turned his head to look at her, his face was gray and the lines on his forehead and around his mouth appeared more deeply etched.

She came farther into the room. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’. Was just about to fix dinner.” He pushed himself to a sitting position and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, then seemed to lose the energy to get up.

Maeve sat beside him and put an arm around his shoulders, alarmed to smell whiskey on his breath. Art liked a shot of Johnny Walker now and then, but he was too frugal to go in for drinking in a big way. “What’s wrong?” she repeated. “Are you ill? Tell me.”

Art sighed and dragged a hand over his stubbly face. “My job is finished. Aussie Electronics is closing the Mornington plant and moving to Indonesia.”

“What! When?” Her father had survived one redundancy, but at his age he’d been lucky to get hired at Aussie Electronics. For him, getting another job would be virtually impossible.

“Three months.” Art reached for the empty glass on the bedside table and swilled back the last drops of whiskey. Then he stared at the floor.

“But I don’t understand. Why?” Her father’s morose apathy scared her. The past five years had been hard on him—first Mum going, then Kristy, then his heart attack. Now this. Her father was no longer the big, bluff man she’d believed invincible when she was a child.

“Supposedly we can’t compete with cheaper imports. They claim wages here are too high. A hundred jobs gone, just like that—” he snapped his fingers “—and me only three years away from retirement.”

“But you said Will Beaumont prided himself on his company being Australian owned and operated. Why would he move it overseas?”

Scowling, Art rose and paced the bedroom. “Money, what else? He’ll make better profits if wages are lower. How do these bastards think the average Joe is going to buy their fancy imported products if they keep shipping jobs out of the country?” he demanded. “Answer me that!”

Behind the fury, she could see that Art was frightened. Not that he would admit such a thing to anyone. Especially to his daughter. “Can’t you do something?” she asked. “Organize the employees to take over the company?”

As quickly as his outrage had flared, it died. Art lowered himself into a chair with the slowness of the aged. “Buy out a multimillion-dollar electronics business that requires ongoing research and development of new products? Not a hope. Will is a proud man. He’d never agree to handing over control, much less being an employee in his own company. Nor could we carry on without him.”

“Oh, Dad.” She knelt beside his chair and put her arms around his shoulders. She’d meant to console him, but she ended up shaking him. If her father sank into inaction, he was lost. “Don’t give up. You can fight it somehow.”

Art seemed to make a conscious effort to straighten his shoulders. “I’ll be right, Sprout, you’ll see. Nothin’ for you to worry about.”

She squeezed his hand and managed a reassuring smile, knowing she would worry, even though she could do nothing about her father’s predicament.

On the other hand, she could control what she did with her life. She was damned if she would work for the man who’d dumped her father back on the unemployment heap. And to think she’d been feeling sorry she’d turned down Will’s invitation to the jazz concert.

“I need to do something,” she said, rising. “Don’t worry about dinner. I’ll pick up some fish and chips for us on my way back. I shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

She was halfway to Sorrento before it occurred to her that she could have called Will Beaumont on the phone to cancel the job. But she’d still have to mail his check back, and, damn it, she wanted to give him a piece of her mind. If she called, he could simply hang up on her.

Her hands gripped the wheel as her foot pressed harder on the accelerator and she took a curve at ten miles an hour over the speed limit. The thought of her father pottering around the house like an old man when all he wanted was to be working and earning his own way fueled her indignation. Art had a right to a job. A right to his full pension after decades in the workforce. She thumped her fist on the steering wheel. A right to dignity.

She came over the rise that led into Sorrento. Before her, the ferry dock jutted into the bay and the limestone heritage buildings mounted the hill, interspersed with trendy boutiques and surf shops.

Will Beaumont seemed like a decent man, she told herself as she drove through town. She should give him the benefit of the doubt, not blast him. But when she pulled up his long driveway and saw him untying his surfboard from the roof rack of his silver-gray Mercedes, she was outraged. While her father had been drowning his sorrows, the man responsible had been out surfing.

Bastard.

“Maeve. G’day,” Will said, his voice lifting in surprise as she got out of the ute. He was still in his wet suit, the top half peeled to his waist, exposing a chest and shoulders lean and hard with muscle. His smile faded as the look on her face registered. “I see you heard the news.”

“I heard, all right. Why are you shutting down the factory and moving it overseas?” She pulled the check he’d given her from her breast pocket, prepared to rip it into pieces. She’d been going to create a wonderland in his backyard. A special place for him and his future family. Not bloody likely.

His warm blue eyes turned cold as he spied the check in her hand. “The move is necessary to save the business.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that you’ll be putting my father and a hundred other workers out of jobs?”

His fingers curled around the edge of his surfboard, knuckles white. “I’m sorry about your father. And the others, too, of course.”

She glared at him, not bothering to hide her anger. Some things were too rotten to gloss over with the mask of politeness. “My father is fifty-seven. Where is he going to get another job at that age? Or do you think he should go overseas and work for fifty cents an hour?”

“It’s not what I wanted to happen. I’ll do my best to help my people find other employment.” His quiet voice held an edge.

“‘Your people’?” she spat. “You don’t own them. Save your hypocritical explanations and useless platitudes for the factory. Just don’t count on anyone believing a word.”

He propped the surfboard against the car and faced her squarely. “You’re a businesswoman. Surely, you can understand that if you’re not turning a profit you won’t stay in business for long.”

“Not turning a profit? How can that be? Your top-selling product is a super-duper alarm system that not even my father can afford to buy.”

“A rip-off model has come on the market, undercutting me,” he countered sharply. “I don’t want to move production offshore, but it’s that or shut the business down altogether.”

“How can you afford this house if your company is doing so poorly?” she demanded. “I don’t see you suffering.”

“I bought this house five years ago, when times were good and real estate prices were low. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“You drive a Mercedes,” she said, grasping for ammunition. She had him on the defensive, so why did she feel she was being backed into a corner?

“I wanted a car with safety features…a family car,” he said, his voice hardening with every word. “Are you finished?”

Damn it, she wanted so badly to hate him. The surfboard caught her eye. Aha, Nero fiddling while Rome burned. “Shouldn’t you have been thinking up ways to save Aussie Electronics, instead of going surfing like some irresponsible teenager?”

He didn’t flinch from her accusing gaze. “Surfing clears my mind. It puts me in a head space where I can see alternatives to problems.”

Intrigued despite herself, she cataloged the information. “Really?” she had to ask. “What is it about surfing that does that for you?”

“I’ve got a theory,” he said slowly, taken aback at her abrupt change of tack, “that the ocean’s horizontal planes promote lateral thinking.”

Was he joking? He looked serious. Yet as she stared at him, he grinned sheepishly, as though he knew that even if his theory made sense to him, it sounded crazy to others.

“But waves are vertical,” she objected.

He slapped the roof of the Mercedes. “This is the surface of the ocean.” Then he slanted his hand at a sixty-degree angle to the roof. “This is the wave.” With his other hand he intersected the wave and the ocean. “This is the surfboard with me on it. At the juncture of the two tangible planes is a third, imaginary, dimension, where anything can happen.”

It didn’t make rational sense, but, God help her, she could see it. Her mind translated his abstract notion into a vision of cascading drifts of blue and white flowers with, here and there, the unexpected blossom of red or purple—

No, it was too late for that. The check fluttered between her fingers in the light breeze.

He glanced at it, seeming to catch her thoughts. “I hope you’ll still do my garden.”

Her fingers tightened, crushing the flimsy bit of paper. With Art out of work, they would need the money. She gazed into Will’s blue eyes and saw intelligence and compassion, qualities as attractive to her as his physical appearance. He was a good man caught in difficult circumstances.

Then she thought of Art, a broken man.

And she just…couldn’t…do it.

“Go to hell.” She stuffed the check in his hand, ran back to her utility truck and tore down the driveway and out of his life, before she could change her mind.